


Jenny of Oldstones

by TheRealSokka



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 62, Badass Queen edition, Family, Here We Stand, Knighthood, Lady of Winterfell, Loyalty, Loyalty - Mormont Edition, Mentors, Multi, Not today, Reminiscing, Sneaking Along the Battlements, Walking the Battlements - Badass Queen Edition, journeys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-01-25 22:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18583684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealSokka/pseuds/TheRealSokka
Summary: The final hours before the battle from the perspective of the women at Winterfell. Heavy on reminiscing about the road that has led them there.Each chapter will follow a theme from the song (and what a beautifully haunting song it is). Tags will be added as characters join in.If everything goes according to plan, the final POV will drop right on Sunday.





	1. High in the Halls of the Kings Who Are Gone

* * *

Grey.

From the alcoves, the stone faces stared back at her, grey as death and cold and immovable as winter. The dim torchlight made the statues come to eerie life, twitching over their cheeks and sword hands. Every one of them was chiselled after the likeness of a former lord or king, and not one of them looked friendly to her. _Be gone_ , they seemed to say. _You don’t belong here_.

Dany reciprocated their stare almost petulantly. Maybe it was a stupid thing to be angry at statues, but they didn’t seem to have a problem with being angry at her even though she was here to save all their descendants from death itself, so. It wasn’t like anyone would notice even if she were to yell at them; aside from Jon, she had never seen anybody down here. Most people weren’t allowed in the crypt, Dany figured. Either that or they simply avoided them.

Dany really couldn’t blame them. This wasn’t a friendly place, and she could not imagine burying someone she loved here, let alone be buried here herself. A final resting place belonged somewhere under the sun, somewhere where life still had a place and where death wasn’t all around you. Dany had seen the Night King, felt the cold dread that accompanied him, and this crypt felt like he had already been here and spread his influence. The chill that went down her spine at the thought had nothing to do with the cold.

Still, this place was the only one in the castle not bustling with hectic activity, and she needed to gather her thoughts. Badly.

Nothing was going the way she had imagined it. Bit by bit, the optimism Dany had felt as they had ridden towards Winterfell had vanished – from the looks of the commoners outside, as stone-faced as these statues, to the less than warm welcome by the Lady of Winterfell, to the sudden distance Jon seemed to be keeping from her (Why?), it had all amounted to the question what she was doing here. Nobody seemed to really want her here, after all. They didn’t even realize they _needed_ her to defeat the death that was marching towards them.

Dany knew that circumstances like this had a tendency to make her doubt herself, and she couldn’t allow herself to be doubtful now. She needed to have her wits about her if she was to lead her people to victory in this battle. Otherwise, the Night King would kill her – or worse, another of her dragons. She wouldn’t be able to bear that; losing Viserion already felt like a part of her had been torn away. And Jon’s brother claimed that he was with the dead now.

Dany didn’t want to see that, but in her heart she already knew that Bran was right. She would have to face Viserion, and Drogon would have to fight his brother. She knew that.

“I’ve lost him for you.” she told the statue of the dead Stark in front of her. King, lord, she didn’t even know what he was. “All I want is to protect all of you; why is that so hard to understand?! I’m paying every price to be a good queen. I just want…”

 _Acceptance_. That was what she wanted. _Love_. It sounded pathetic, she knew, but after all she had been through, hadn’t she deserved that much?

She thought she had found it with Jon. With him, it had come quickly and suddenly; nothing like the slow, careful process she had experienced with Drogo. Dany sometimes wondered if the newness of it all made her reckless. Why else would she allow him to ride her dragons so soon, if at all? Leaving aside how jealously she would have guarded them from anyone else, he could have died so very easily in the attempt, and it still amazed her how well he had taken to flying. It was a small miracle he had returned to the ground without any bruises at all.

But the fact that he had attempted it at all spoke of how much he was willing to do for her, didn’t it? As Dany would for him at this point. Even this crypt: she wouldn’t have come down here in the first place if it hadn’t been for Jon. A small scoff flew from her lips and into the damp air: She wouldn’t have come _north_ if it hadn’t been for Jon. Its people were sour and distrustful, whereas he seemed to be the opposite. Maybe that was part of what she loved about him.

 _What she loved about him_.

Danerys pondered on that thought. She hadn’t wanted to fall in love again. No matter how happy it made her, there was risk involved. Caithe’s prophecy was still with her every night: _one to betray you for gold, one for power, one for love_. She thought two of those had already occurred, but even there she wasn’t sure. She refused to dwell on it too much.

Jon wouldn’t betray her. He couldn’t. He had surrendered his crown to her, despite knowing that it wouldn’t go over well with his people. All to protect them; to help her protect them. Dany nodded to herself: whatever troubled him now, together they would beat it. She only had to talk to him first, maybe take a few more steps towards him, as he had taken so many for her. She had to learn to trust again. She was a khaleesi, and the thought of a conversation with her – what, lover; love; Warden of the North? – shouldn’t trouble her this much.

After all, it could only go better than the talk with his sister.

Above her, a roar echoed down through the stone, making dust drizzle down from the ceiling. Dany couldn't help but smile: Drogon, probably playing with his brother. His battle roar was as loud as her husband’s had ever been, matched only by his raw strength. She had chosen the name well.

She wondered whether she had doomed Viserion from the start.

The Night King. Just thinking about the tall, pale figure made Daenerys’ blood run as hot as her dragon’s. He would pay for what he did. This wasn’t just about the North. This was about her children. They would destroy him.

And yet, there was also fear. Dany didn’t want to admit it, but the Night King scared her in a way none of her previous adversaries had. For the first time, there was a power that could single-handedly match her dragons in a fight, and would do so without any hesitation whatsoever.

Over the years, she had come to realize that the awe with which people looked at her dragons was in large part because they resembled nothing else in their world. If they could die like any other creature, that would vanish. And, after how she had been greeted in the North, Dany didn’t doubt that with it the respect for her would vanish, too.

Of all the battles she had fought, this coming one she could not afford to lose. If she did, everything would be gone. If she won, the road to the Iron Throne would still not have gotten a step shorter, but at least there would be a road left to travel.

Dany only hoped the people she cared about – there were far too many now; when had she allowed this to happen? – would survive to travel it with her.


	2. Jenny Would Dance With her Ghosts

 

* * *

 

Silver.

The Valyrian Steel sword gleamed in the fire light, casting tiny sprinkles of light across her face. She looked up. The words the Kingslayer had spoken seemed to echo so loudly in the hushed room that it felt almost unreal. Maybe it was unreal. Maybe it was a dream and she would wake up any moment, back home and about to marry some highborn son.

Then the silence was broken by loud clapping. The wildling, it had to be. But then more people joined in. The Imp’s voice rang out: “Ser Brienne of Tarth! A knight of the Seven Kingdoms!”

Brienne felt tears glisten in her eyes. She met Ser Jaime’s look, which hadn’t left her the entire time. Did he look sceptical? Regretful of what he had just done?

No; the look on his face wasn’t either. Brienne didn’t know what it was, but she felt a laugh bubble up in her chest. She repeated the words in her mind. _Ser Brienne._ _A knight of the Seven Kingdoms_. Since she had been eight years of age, she hadn’t allowed herself to even think it.

Jaime gave her a nod. She thought he even smiled – not the derisive smirk she had come to expect, but a genuine, friendly smile. Brienne didn’t join him as he returned to his seat, too stunned to move. She looked at all the faces in the room – all of them smiling at her – and then the laugh finally broke free. It had to, or else she would burst with happiness. There were tears running down her cheeks, and Brienne couldn’t bring herself to care.

If only her father could see her now. What would he think? Brienne had been gone from home for so long; she didn’t even know if he was well. He would have no idea where his daughter even was, nor how she had gotten here.

Somehow she thought Lord Selvyn would be happy for her. The Evenstar had never discouraged her from her preference of sword fighting over dancing, even though the former was very unlikely to garner her the attention of a suitable husband. He’d provided her with the proper training and armour and had taken it upon himself to teach her the virtues of bravery, justice and mercy – even though the word ‘knight’ had never left his lips. Because how could his only daughter ever become a knight, even though there was nothing else she was remotely good at?

Brienne certainly had never believed it. At least, not after the first time the real squires to real knights had led her on and mocked her. Back then, their scorn had almost reduced her to tears. She’d sworn to prove them wrong, prove that she was as capable as and more so than them, but their unquestioning understanding that a woman could never be a knight had become her own. She had become a better fighter, certainly, but never a knight. Could never be one.

Even Catelyn Stark had not seen her as such. Brienne had seen it on her face when they met: that surprised, sceptical look that everyone wore as soon as they saw her; a big, brutish woman in armour. In contrast to most, Lady Stark had at least been so courteous as to hide it thereafter. She had not treated her as lesser than any of her other retainers, and for that alone Brienne had been grateful to her. Would always be grateful for it, because otherwise she never would have ended up in this room, with Jaime Lannister placing a sword on her shoulder. In her wildest dreams she never would have been able to imagine a situation like this.

 “Congratulations, ser – ah, m’lady.” Podrick said as she sat back down next to him, before correcting himself a second time, “Ahm, I mean, ser.”

“Thank you Pod.” she said before crushing him in a hug. Such an effusive gesture would never have occurred to her at any other time, but now Brienne wasn’t even thinking. She could not remember ever being this happy. Stupidly so. She must be grinning like a fool. Belatedly, she became aware that her squire must have difficulty breathing in his current predicament and released him.

Podrick straightened up. The look on his face was bright happiness for her.  Then it turned thoughtful. He asked, “Since this might be our last night alive, perhaps you could knight me, too?”

“Uhm…” Brienne was taken off guard and didn’t quite know what to say to that. Knight him? Podrick had become a good fighter, alright, but was he ready to be a knight? He was still young. Could she even knight him? Jaime’s action had already been unprecedented; there weren’t any guidelines for her. And how many people would laugh at Pod when they heard he had received his knighthood from a _woman_? “I don’t know if…”

“It was a joke, ser.” Pod hastened to reassure her. His face lit up with a smile, though. “You were considering it?!”

“Great.” groaned the Imp, as he pressed a cup of wine into Brienne’s hands. “Don’t give him any grand ideas. He might think himself above drinking with poor, un-knighted sods like the rest of us.”

Brienne took a big swig from the cup without even thinking about it, missing Podrick’s response. The alcohol tasted bitter and unpleasant, but it made her feel warm inside, too, so she took another. This was something she was sure her father would disapprove of, she thought absentmindedly. He often used to joke about how a few small cups of wine could make even the cleverest man foolish. But perhaps a little bit of foolishness could help her nerves in the battle to come. Tyrion certainly seemed to think so, and – Brienne hid her smile behind the cup – he would have to know, judging by his demeanour.

 _I charge you to be brave_.

Brienne didn’t know if she was. She didn’t run from her fights; maybe that made her brave. She was afraid of the coming battle; not for herself, but for Pod – and maybe a little bit for Ser Jaime, too. Could one still be brave if they were afraid?

 _I charge you to be just_.

She would try to be, if she got the opportunity. From Lady Catelyn, and then from Lady Sansa, she had learned a lot about justice, though she doubted she would ever possess their good judgment. With the kind of blunders she had made at times, it would be a long time before she was fit to pass judgment over anyone.

 _I charge you to defend the innocent_.

Her thoughts returned to Catelyn Stark once more. The woman she hadn’t been able to protect. She had sworn her to protect her daughters, instead, and Brienne was resolved to keep to that promise. Even more so now that she was a knight. _Defend the innocent_. Lady Stark had not deserved to die, and neither did Sansa or Arya. And they wouldn’t; not if Brienne had any say in it.

Both had grown into impressive women of their own. Sansa had become an image of her mother, as courteous and lady-like, but with the same edge and steel in her voice. The Lady of Winterfell, and Winterfell could not hope for a better one. And Arya – she had become a fighter. As she had proved impressively. Brienne hoped they would get more opportunities to spar, because the young wolf girl fought unlike anyone else she had ever encountered. It was no less impressive than her sister’s skills as a ruler. With both of them together, House Stark was sure to survive the wars to come.

If she was to die defending their home, well, Brienne couldn’t imagine a worthier cause to die for. It was all she had ever hoped for.


	3. The Ones She Had Lost and the Ones She Had Found

* * *

Auburn.

The small flashes of colour in her peripheral vision kept catching her eye. Strands of auburn, floating amidst the black and white of the winter night. Her hair, dancing in the wind, blowing past her face no matter how many times she tried to brush it away. Perhaps she should have followed her sister’s example and cut it. But longer suited her more. And it helped having something to focus on.

It was strange how the mind would seize on small things like that; little things like colours. Sansa had experienced it before: in the most triumphant and the most terrible moments of her life, there was always a small detail that would spring into her focus and linger. It could distract from pain and ground her when she became too euphoric. This didn’t do either, but it stopped her thoughts from wandering too far out into the dark of the night, instead forcing her to focus on something closer. That was why she had come up here in the first place. Walking helped clear her mind.

The battlements were a cold place. A harsh wind was blowing, causing a bone-deep chill even through her thick layers of fur. The watchers on the walls were shivering in their cloaks, huddled close around the braziers. They looked as miserable as was to be expected. Though their faces lit up a little when they saw her approach, Sansa noted with satisfaction. She made sure to greet every one of them.

At this point, there wasn’t a lot left she could do. The preparations were made, the tactic was clear, and Sansa was self-aware enough to know that in the fight itself she wouldn’t be of much help. But she could inspire confidence still. The men would need every bit of it for what was to come.

Sansa didn’t want to imagine how the Dragon Queen’s soldiers fared in this cold. The Northmen were as prepared as they could be for the winter, but there hadn’t been time to do the same for the Unsullied and Dothraki. Truth be told, Sansa hadn’t thought she would have to worry about them, too. She had figured that if Daenerys led them north, she knew what awaited them and would make her own preparations. Evidently, she hadn’t.

Sansa really didn’t know what Jon saw in the woman. Yes, she was a good talker, and she did have fear-inspiring dragons, but beyond that? Sansa couldn’t see it. She knew her half-brother well enough to know that he wouldn’t just have fallen for her pretty face, but like most men it was likely to blind him to the Dragon Queen’s less than admirable qualities. Like her lust for power and control, for one. To Sansa, that part was as obvious as anything; had been even before their short one-on-one conversation. She had seen the same drive in many men, in several variations, and it was always dangerous.

Her brother didn’t seem to see it. When all this was over, Sansa would have to have a talk with Arya. She was the only one Jon would probably listen to.

On the north wall, she came upon the Hound and his friend from the brotherhood. The two of them were sharing a flask of wine, something Sansa would advise against so close before the battle, but she swallowed that comment back down. It wasn’t like Sandor Clegane of all people would listen to her. He’d arrived in Jon’s entourage, but for all intents and purposes he didn’t seem to belong to anybody, or take order from anyone.

“M’lady.” Lord Beric greeted her.

“Lady Stark.” rumbled the Hound.

He was growing old, Sansa noted. There were strands of grey in his beard. His eyes were older, too, but they still inspected her with the same lack of respect, even though a lifetime had passed since the night of the siege of Kings Landing. “Little bird has grown up.” he said.

“Don’t drink too much.” she replied. It was worth a try.

He gave a throaty chuckle. “Are you giving me orders now?”

“Yes.” Sansa left it at that and continued her walk. Part of her wanted to sit down and talk to this man; the genuinely curious, childish side of her. The sensible woman knew that it was unlikely he would survive the night and wanted to spare herself the pain. If she knew one thing about the man back there, it was that when battle broke out, he would be right in the middle of it. As long as there was no fire involved. But that seemed unlikely, given their enemy.

There were a lot of people inside these walls whose faces she likely would not see again. She shouldn’t think about it too much. This was war, and people died in war.

People like Jon. Or Brienne. Or Theon.

Sansa never would have thought she would someday be worried for Theon Greyjoy. As children, they had never exchanged more than a few words with one another; he had struck her as vain and irresponsible. Then he had attacked Winterfell and killed her brothers – or so she’d thought. The next time Sansa had seen him, years later, was as Ramsey’s puppet, willing to do whatever the cruel bastard asked him to. She had hated him.

And yet now the thought of losing him was almost as bad as losing one of her family. Perhaps helping each other through the hardships that they had always created this sort of bond; Sansa wouldn’t know. What she did know was that he had changed and that he was still trying to make amends for what he’d done. Perhaps that was why she found it so easy to talk with him. And why she didn’t want him to die.

Sansa shook her head. Theon would be with Bran in the Godswood, keeping him safe. Perhaps the both of them would never even see any fighting. She hoped that would be the case.

She had made the round once around the entire castle without really noticing. Up in the keep above her, she could see a light burning, its shine bright in the dark of the night. The library, she realized. Probably Jon, still looking over the battle plan. Or just someone else who couldn’t sleep. If she weren’t feeling so restless, Sansa might have done the same.

Her eyes lingered on the lit window, and the gargoyle she knew was right atop it. She had seen this façade a hundred times as a child. The building hadn’t changed at all. How strange it was that it hadn’t changed, when everything around it had, Sansa thought. Eight years ago, she had left this castle an entirely different person; head filled with thoughts of pretty ladies and brave knights.

Sansa frowned at her own past self. She had been so naïve, and in the end it had cost her father his head. And people had been sure to exploit her foolishness. First Joffrey, then Cersei, then Littlefinger – Sansa didn’t like thinking back to those days. She had been the plaything of others for a very long time.

Arya had never been another’s plaything. That at least hadn’t changed a bit. Sansa chuckled to herself. No, she couldn’t picture anyone ever successfully telling her sister what to do. She barely listened to _her_ , and they had become as close as such wildly different people like them probably could be. Arya had definitely inherited most of the Stark blood in the family, and all the audacity and stubbornness that came with it.

It was part of what Sansa had come to admire about her sister. When they were children, she had dismissed those qualities as basic wilfulness that Arya would never grow out of, making her completely unfit to be a lady. In part that had undoubtedly been true. Her tendency to break rules had endured to this day – but it no longer seemed like such a bad thing to Sansa. Some rules, she had learned, had to be broken.

She admired Jon for his bravery, too – even though it often blurred the line towards foolishness. To lead an expedition north of the Wall? Most men would shy at the very thought, especially knowing what was out there. That took courage, and Sansa sometimes wished that her brother had a little bit less of it.

Both of them were impossible at times, and Sansa wondered what it would be like to have normal siblings instead of the ones she had ended up with. Someone of whom she could reasonably predict what they were going to do. Sansa almost wished for a reality like that. Except; she didn’t. Not really.

Even Bran… the way he had just accepted his role as a pawn sacrifice to win this battle – had suggested it, really. That took more than courage. He had become so strangely apathetic compared to the wilful, lively boy Sansa remembered, but sometimes, like in there, there was still a spark in his eyes that she recognized. Sansa didn’t know the half of his journey, and since he had come back she had been too preoccupied to ask him. In this moment she regretted it, since now she might never get the opportunity again. If he should die in this dangerous, insane plan of his – Sansa refused to follow that train of thought. None of them would die. They couldn’t. Not after only just having found each other again.

What their mother would say if she could see them now. Sansa smiled at the thought. First, Catelyn Stark would probably fuss about how big they had all gotten. And then she’d tell them not to be afraid, and probably would give each of them advice for the coming hours. The thought was strangely comforting.

Sansa hadn’t thought about her mother in a long time. On some level, that made her feel guilty. On the other hand, she felt that Catelyn would not have wanted her to dwell on her passing at all. She’d been a woman who’d lived for the present and planned for the future, after all.

Father was another matter. Sansa still thought about him often – or, more accurately, she often thought about that day. That moment had shaped her; when the executioner’s sword had fallen, and with it her entire world that she had been living in. For the first time she had seen behind the pretty façade of Kings Landing, and it had shaken her. At one point, after seeing her father’s head left to rot on a pike, she had considered killing herself along with the monster who was responsible for it.

But she hadn’t, and she was still here. Sansa took a deep breath, feeling a cold tear on her cheek. She wiped it away. She missed both of them still. But the memory no longer paralyzed like it had before. There was something to be learned from every failure and every loss. Sansa had failed enough for two lifetimes, but she had learned. She intended to use every ounce of that knowledge to keep harm away from herself and her family. And with Jon, Bran and Arya had come the confidence that they _would_ survive. No matter what the world threw at them.

A cold wind caught her cloak and made it billow behind her. It was coming from the north. Sansa turned her face into the wind. “You can’t frighten me.” she told the gathering storm clouds.


	4. The Ones Who’d Been Gone for So Very Long

* * *

White.

The snow fell more heavily now, covering everything. If she were poetically inclined, she might have compared it to a shroud, seeing how the dead intended this castle to be their tomb. Since she wasn’t, it was just snow and nothing more.

Arya didn’t mind it. The cold was biting, but she was a Stark. She in fact preferred it to the warmth of her bed. A blush ghosted over her cheeks at the thought. Things had gotten a little – heated in there, and while that was nice and all, there was nothing like a dose of cold, northern wind to sharpen the mind before a fight. Or perhaps she just couldn’t sleep, at least not as soundly as Gendry – he would probably sleep right through the end of the world unless somebody woke him.

Or perhaps it felt strange sharing a bed with someone after she had been on her own for such a long time. Perhaps it was a mix of all of the above; who cared? Arya wasn’t one for introspection, and she wouldn’t start now. At this moment, she was out in the courtyard, slinking through the hustling men and women that still filled it as this hour, and how she had gotten there wasn’t as important as where she was going. Even though she also didn’t know where that was yet. Details. She would work those out as she went; she was good at that.

Looking up above her, she spied a shadow walking along the wall, over towards the keep. Even in the dark Arya could tell who it was: the long hair and purposeful stride of her sister were unmistakable. Walking the battlements in preparation for the battle, no doubt. Arya considered calling out to her, but in the end chose not to. If she knew Sansa at all, it was probably best to leave her to her own devices when she was out being the Lady of Winterfell.

Arya gave a dry chuckle and continued on her way. It was strange how quickly she had gotten used to this new version of her sister. She still remembered a Sansa who would only stitch and smile prettily all day, and who could freak out at things like her dress being muddied. This new, assertive Sansa still sometimes made Arya blink and look twice if the two were really the same person. But she had to admit, power suited her. And they could agree on things now. Miracles were possible.

Arya climbed up the stairs, up into one of the guard towers. She moved like a shadow and the soldier who was stationed up there never even noticed her slipping past him and sitting down in between the merlons. Briefly, she considered coughing and startling the poor man, but that wouldn’t really be fair. Like everyone else, he probably had enough on his mind already. So she just sat and gazed out into the darkness.

The chilly weather didn’t faze her. Nor did the things that supposedly came with it. Sure, they couldn’t be killed by normal means and there were a lot of them, but everyone had weaknesses. As long as she knew those weaknesses – and more importantly, fought with one, she thought dryly, twirling her dragonglass spear around her arm – the dead were like any other enemy she had faced. _When you pierce them, they die_.

Her thoughts wandered. Spinning the stick in her hands, her mind took her back to a sunlit room far to the south of here, where she had spent hours training with wood in her hands until every muscle in her body ached and the stupid smile wouldn’t leave her face. To her dancing master; the best swordsman whom she had known and who had never carried a sword. With a sad little smile, Arya wondered if she could best him now. Those play-fights in the Red Keep seemed like a lifetime ago.

Syrio Forel had been her first teacher. Her father had encouraged her to learn from him and others, even though the lessons weren’t ones a proper lady would need. And Arya had made sure to always learn – after his death all the more so.

There had been an old crow, a man of the Night’s Watch. Yoren, who made her a boy and taught her about revenge. The list she had begun that night now carried only one name, and Arya was determined to wipe it off, too. She still spoke it every time before she went to sleep.

A man with a false face had taught her about appearances and debt. A skilled assassin, and an even better manipulator. She had been determined to be like him and take revenge for her family, whatever it took. It had taken years before she had wanted to be Arya Stark again and left that path, and to this day she didn’t know if their parting had been a friendly one. She still sometimes looked over her shoulder; a part of her expecting a faceless assassin to emerge from the shadows.

Then there was the Hound, who taught her to kill. Arya looked across the walls, wondering if he and Beric were still sitting in the spot where she’d left them. Probably. They were miserable like that. Arya had come to know Sandor Clegane quite well over the course of their joint journey; most likely better than he would like. She knew why he was sitting there, as far away as possible from any fire – and in the company of a fire priest, ironically. Arya chuckled to herself. Sometimes fate could be quite strange.

She hoped he wouldn’t die. Only because she would miss making fun of his sour attitude. That was all.

The Waif had played only a small role in shaping her into the woman she was now, but she had played it with a cruelty that ensured Arya would remember her face forever. As she would remember the lesson: always know who you are and know who your enemy is. Lessons that had proved invaluable in dealing with Littlefinger.

Finally, her sister. Gods knew, Arya had never thought she would ever admit to have learned something from Sansa, but here they were. Patience, for one. Out-talking, rather than out-fighting an enemy – even though the latter would always remain Arya’ preferred approach. And courage. You could have courage even if you weren’t a fighter, Arya had learned, and her sister was the best example of that.

Sansa had made her remember the first lesson, too; the one from their father: trust in her family. _Trust each other_.

In close to six years of drifting across the world, Arya had almost forgotten that. But she had come to trust Sansa again, and she trusted Jon. Arya liked this feeling of fighting on the same side again; together. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed it until she had gotten it back.

A tugging at her robe told her that the wind had picked up. The weather was growing colder.

Arya gazed out over the battlements. In the darkness to the north, a storm was looming. The wind picked up and with it, it brought a chill unlike anything the Stark girl had ever felt before. Shivering, Arya narrowed her eyes to stare into the darkness. At first she wasn’t sure if she had imagined it. Then, in the distance, she clearly saw the mass of shadows moving in the dark. Shadows with blue eyes.

_What do we say to the God of Death?_

“Not today.” Arya said into the night.

Every time before, she had spoken the phrase as a reassurance. Now, as the first warning horns sounded across the castle, Arya spoke it as a promise.


	5. She Couldn’t Remember Their Names

* * *

Black.

The ink was blotched and runny, marring the otherwise careful writing of the old hand who had put the words onto the paper. It had been the cold, probably. Or the damp. Ravens didn’t have it easy in this weather. It was fortunate that this one had gotten through at all.

The Lady of Bear Island read the letter carefully. Only a single candle gave her light; all the others had burned down already in an attempt to stave off the darkness for as long as possible. During the past few days she had talked a lot with her soldiers, and one of the things she’d learned was how each one of them had a different way of preparing for battle. Some tried to sleep, others sparred, and others again drank or diced or made love. Whatever worked for them. Lyanna Mormont, for her part, had chosen to sit down in Winterfell’s extensive library and try reading for a bit. There was something to be said about enjoying the quietude of the library before it might be destroyed in the coming hours. She wasn’t sure how much it had prepared her, though.

In truth, she had spent most of the time staring at the map table, anyway. There was nothing new to be learned there: the pieces and their position had stayed exactly the same, and they still showed overwhelming odds against them. So when a servant had knocked on the door, saying that a letter had arrived for her, Lyanna had welcomed the distraction.

The letter was yet another proof of the old saying; _dark wings, dark words_. It was from her maester, back at Bear Island. The man was too old and frail to make the journey to Winterfell in these conditions. But it wouldn’t stop him from delivering bad news, as his profession was so often accused of. According to his words, the sea surrounding the isle had frozen over; something that hadn’t happened in over a century. The last remaining children of Bear Island were merrily playing on the ice, unaware of the danger that the stunning phenomenon entailed.

Lyanna would like to see it for herself. The Bay of Seals as a giant white sheet had to be beautiful. As it was, the thought only troubled her. When she had learned of the threat from beyond the Wall, she had always taken comfort in the fact that Bear Island was safe, unreachable. The rest of the North was not, so not fighting in this war had never been a consideration, but that selfish piece of comfort had kept her strong. Now, however, if they didn’t win this battle, none in her home was safe anymore. They had to win.

That thought scared her. Lyanna Mormont was afraid. She doubted anyone wouldn’t be, faced with what now stood at the gates of Winterfell. Her maester, in his role as her teacher, always said that fear was nothing to be ashamed of, especially for a child. Only the afraid could ever be courageous.

Wise words, no doubt. What the old man hadn’t said was that you couldn’t show that fear in front of your men. No fear, no uncertainty, never. As long as she was strong and steadfast, the people who followed her would be, too. Lyanna Mormont had learned that truth for herself, and she lived by it. She liked to think she was good at it, too. Maybe she’d be as good as her mother, one day. If they survived this night.

Her eyes travelled across the table, settling on another piece of paper and another set of lines of black ink. This one was old and faded, crumpled from where it had been folded and unfolded so many times. Lyanna picked it up and read through it again, even though she knew the contents by heart.

_Greetings, little wildling._

_By the time you read this, we will likely be on the march south once again, so don’t expect us home very soon. The Lannisters still refuse to give us battle. Clearly we’ve frightened them off, the clever bastards. Even so, they can’t move their country and castles, so that’s where we’re heading next. Strictly speaking I’m not supposed to say any of this in a letter, so keep this between us, alright?_

_Until we return, listen to Maester Handring’s counsel and, more importantly, your own. You are the Lady of Bear Island now. Prepare it for the winter. It will be harsh._

_Your mother wants me to tell you she loves you, but I think you know that already, so why waste ink. Just take good care of yourself while we’re gone. The next time we see each other, it will be at Winterfell for the feast in the King’s honour._

_The next time we see each other._ Her aunt’s words. When she closed her eyes, Lyanna could hear her speak them in her stark, blustering voice that legend said had frightened away any would-be suitor. It was one of the few things she remembered of her.

Lyanna Mormont had only been a small child when her aunt and mother had gone south. As much as she tried to remember, their faces were starting to fade in her memory. This was the last letter she had received from them, sent only days before they followed the Young Wolf to the Twins.

Lyanna had thought that Jon Snow would prove a more prudent king than his half-brother. But a good king had to lead with their head, not their heart. She wasn’t sure what their King in the North was leading with now, but his recent decisions didn’t agree with her. At all. She wouldn’t question that he only had the North’s best interest at heart. He had risked too much for it to doubt that. But placing it in the hands of a southern queen, a _Targaryen_ queen…

But that was a problem for another time. One Lyanna would deal with once they had won this battle. Who knew, perhaps the Dragon Queen wouldn’t even survive it. A lot of people wouldn’t.

It was likely that Lyanna wouldn’t, either. But she had decided a long time ago that Winterfell was where she was going to stand, like her mother would, like her cousin did. Even though she didn’t have complete faith in Jon Snow anymore, there were plenty of people in these walls that she did trust. Including the older Stark sister, strangely enough. Sansa Stark – not Bolton; definitely not Lannister. Lyanna had distrusted her for a long time, but that had gradually vanished the more she saw her in action. The Lady of Winterfell possessed a fire and a drive that she had to respect. It reminded Lyanna of her aunt a little bit, if she was honest. And that was not a bad quality for anyone to have.

And sure, there had never been a Queen in the North, but Lyanna didn’t see why there couldn’t be.

A horn echoed through the walls of the library, long and warning. Then another blast. And a third.

She folded the letters into her pocket and stood up. They were here. The time for thinking and planning was over; now they had to fight.

Lyanna Mormont breathed out deeply, steeling herself. She fastened the straps of her armour once more and made her way down to the courtyard. Soldiers were already pouring out through the gate, onto the field. Her men from Bear Island stood to attention as she passed. A few inclined their heads in respect. Not all of them would survive to see the morning. The thought occurred to Lyanna that some of them might have to kill the others again before the sun came up.

“Follow me.” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, let's head into this fight at long last!
> 
> (Place your bets on who dies.)


End file.
